I lost a truly special friend last Sunday

Published: Wednesday, November 14, 2012 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Tuesday, November 13, 2012 at 2:54 p.m.

In 2011, I met a remarkable man who I quickly became proud to call my friend. Our friendship began after he responded a few times to the question I always close my columns with: "What do you think?"

Facts

Tower lives in Hendersonville. He can be reached at mike41tower@bellsouth.net or visit capau.org

He shared his opinions candidly and didn't always agree with me. He was always respectful, even when his feedback sometimes began with, "You're full of baloney" (while using another word). I learned to value his opinions, whether he agreed with me or not, because he always made me think more deeply about the issue at hand. He even made me change my mind a time or two, which is a real achievement.

He called one day to invite me to his home for a general discussion meeting with him and a few of his friends on a topic I had recently written about. He told me the names of the other invitees, all of whom I knew. I called one of them and asked about him and this meeting. I was told my soon-to-be new friend was severely disabled with muscular dystrophy and was no longer able to get out. As a result of his desire to stay connected intellectually, he liked to get a few friends with different perspectives together in his home to debate ideas of mutual interest.

I accepted the invitation, and I remember leaving my home on the day of the meeting feeling sort of proud of myself for so generously sharing my time. Little did I know just how wrong I was because it turned out he was the generous one for sharing the little energy he had remaining to allow others to be exposed to his passion and wisdom.

I walked in the front door of his home and met my soon-to-be friend. He was completely wheelchair bound and only had a little use of his hands. He welcomed me with his gravelly voice and big smile, and I almost instantly forgot he was disabled. It was obvious that his mind was clear and he was very smart.

He sat at the head of the dining room table and asked me, as the newly invited guest, to sit at the opposite end. Four others joined us that day, and the discussion began. My friend orchestrated the discussion in order to draw divergent opinions out of all attendees. What he did not want, it became quickly clear, was some polite, politically correct banter. He wanted to see and hear passion for positions backed up with credible facts. BS was quickly detected by him and called out.

The two hours or so flew by, and I remember leaving his home feeling personally enriched in ways I couldn't have imagined when I left my own home earlier that day.

Thus began a friendship mostly shared by computer and phone for the next year or so. He initiated most of these interactions via telephone or email to provide feedback on one of my recent columns. Sometimes he liked what I wrote and sometimes he did not — and either way, he said so as directly as possible.

I learned very quickly to never discount his criticism because almost always, in retrospect, if I had thought of things from his perspective I would have written a better column. I even began occasionally to send him draft copies of columns and asked for his thoughts. Again, he was the prefect foil. He read every column carefully and told me his immediate reactions. I deeply valued his ideas — and perhaps even more, his candor.

I learned that my new friend, now in his 80s, had been a very talented artist for his entire life, this despite first beginning to suffer from MD in his early 30s. He worked as a commercial artist in Chicago for most of his career after emigrating to America from Belgium as a young man. His home was filled with beautiful paintings he had created. After one look at his work, it didn't take an art critic to understand how talented he was.

I only went to his home for a few of the gatherings, but every one was a pleasure.

Then, about two weeks ago, I received a phone call from my friend to inform me that he did not expect to be able to communicate much longer. He told me he could no longer even use his hands and had to take so much pain management medication that he could no longer function mentally.

He was quite lucid that day, and I can only imagine he had to skip his medication in order to have our last conversation.

He ended the conversation by telling me goodbye and thanking me for our friendship. I cried to myself but never let him know it because he would have called me a sissy!

My good, kind, smart and talented friend, I know you are now in warm sunshine with a few of your favorite disagreeable pals, and canvas and painting supplies are close at hand. I hope you have a glass of Belgian beer and some of those great Belgian cookies on the table beside you. You are greatly missed, pal.

This is dedicated to Al Van Cleven, who is free at last from the shackles of MD, and his loving wife, Bonnie, who inspired all who knew them with her loving care. Nobody could have done a better job of taking care of a loved one.

Mike Tower lives in Hendersonville. Reach him at mike41tower @gmail.com or visit capau.org.

<p>In 2011, I met a remarkable man who I quickly became proud to call my friend. Our friendship began after he responded a few times to the question I always close my columns with: "What do you think?"</p><p>He shared his opinions candidly and didn't always agree with me. He was always respectful, even when his feedback sometimes began with, "You're full of baloney" (while using another word). I learned to value his opinions, whether he agreed with me or not, because he always made me think more deeply about the issue at hand. He even made me change my mind a time or two, which is a real achievement.</p><p>He called one day to invite me to his home for a general discussion meeting with him and a few of his friends on a topic I had recently written about. He told me the names of the other invitees, all of whom I knew. I called one of them and asked about him and this meeting. I was told my soon-to-be new friend was severely disabled with muscular dystrophy and was no longer able to get out. As a result of his desire to stay connected intellectually, he liked to get a few friends with different perspectives together in his home to debate ideas of mutual interest.</p><p>I accepted the invitation, and I remember leaving my home on the day of the meeting feeling sort of proud of myself for so generously sharing my time. Little did I know just how wrong I was because it turned out he was the generous one for sharing the little energy he had remaining to allow others to be exposed to his passion and wisdom.</p><p>I walked in the front door of his home and met my soon-to-be friend. He was completely wheelchair bound and only had a little use of his hands. He welcomed me with his gravelly voice and big smile, and I almost instantly forgot he was disabled. It was obvious that his mind was clear and he was very smart.</p><p>He sat at the head of the dining room table and asked me, as the newly invited guest, to sit at the opposite end. Four others joined us that day, and the discussion began. My friend orchestrated the discussion in order to draw divergent opinions out of all attendees. What he did not want, it became quickly clear, was some polite, politically correct banter. He wanted to see and hear passion for positions backed up with credible facts. BS was quickly detected by him and called out.</p><p>The two hours or so flew by, and I remember leaving his home feeling personally enriched in ways I couldn't have imagined when I left my own home earlier that day.</p><p>Thus began a friendship mostly shared by computer and phone for the next year or so. He initiated most of these interactions via telephone or email to provide feedback on one of my recent columns. Sometimes he liked what I wrote and sometimes he did not — and either way, he said so as directly as possible.</p><p>I learned very quickly to never discount his criticism because almost always, in retrospect, if I had thought of things from his perspective I would have written a better column. I even began occasionally to send him draft copies of columns and asked for his thoughts. Again, he was the prefect foil. He read every column carefully and told me his immediate reactions. I deeply valued his ideas — and perhaps even more, his candor.</p><p>I learned that my new friend, now in his 80s, had been a very talented artist for his entire life, this despite first beginning to suffer from MD in his early 30s. He worked as a commercial artist in Chicago for most of his career after emigrating to America from Belgium as a young man. His home was filled with beautiful paintings he had created. After one look at his work, it didn't take an art critic to understand how talented he was.</p><p>I only went to his home for a few of the gatherings, but every one was a pleasure. </p><p>Then, about two weeks ago, I received a phone call from my friend to inform me that he did not expect to be able to communicate much longer. He told me he could no longer even use his hands and had to take so much pain management medication that he could no longer function mentally. </p><p>He was quite lucid that day, and I can only imagine he had to skip his medication in order to have our last conversation.</p><p>He ended the conversation by telling me goodbye and thanking me for our friendship. I cried to myself but never let him know it because he would have called me a sissy!</p><p>My good, kind, smart and talented friend, I know you are now in warm sunshine with a few of your favorite disagreeable pals, and canvas and painting supplies are close at hand. I hope you have a glass of Belgian beer and some of those great Belgian cookies on the table beside you. You are greatly missed, pal.</p><p>This is dedicated to Al Van Cleven, who is free at last from the shackles of MD, and his loving wife, Bonnie, who inspired all who knew them with her loving care. Nobody could have done a better job of taking care of a loved one.</p><p>Mike Tower lives in Hendersonville. Reach him at mike41tower @gmail.com or visit capau.org.</p>